Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

I can make it rain, straighten twisted branches, raise the dead ... I say , let there be light , and the whole city’s godlike   

At midnight when August is about to end, I think about the leaves that incessantly fall from calendars. I believe I am the tree of the calendars. Every passing day, leaves me wondering: if the one who loses a father is an orphan, if a man who loses his wife is widower, what name do we give the loser? How to call an idler of time? And if I myself am time, how shall I call myself, if I lose myself? Day and night, not Monday or Tuesday, or August or September. Day and night are the measure of our duration. To open and close our eyes is to last. At this hour, every night, forever, I am the one who has lost the day. (Though I may feel that, like fruit rises through peach branches, the in the heart of these hours rises the dawn.)

Day House People and things enter the day house, acrid herbs, sleep deprived horses, pretensions with music, mannequins resembling girls. You and I enter. Dance enters, the sun, a life insurance agent and a policeman enter. We are going to sell ourselves, Mayhem.